


which death could scarce disgrace

by heartofstanding



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Corpse Viewing (not described), Death by Starvation, Epiphany Rising, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Treason, basically everyone's a mess, not compliant with Shakespeare, so much guilt and grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 06:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20792303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Edward makes a choice when there are no good choices and has to live with the thing he has done.





	which death could scarce disgrace

**Author's Note:**

> This fic depicts the Epiphany Rising, Edward of York’s role in that and Richard II’s death very differently from how Shakespeare depicted them in _Richard II_. I was interested in a number of details in the historical accounts of the Rising that either don't appear in the play or are contradicted by it - there's more detail about the history in the end-notes if you're interested. 
> 
> The title comes from Samuel Daniel’s _Civil Wars_.

**December 1399 – March 1400**

Edward had a choice to make.

A choice that made him ill, that robbed him of sleep and appetite. He made excuses where he could and spent hours pacing his room or hunched over a basin, heaving. His father remarked that he looked pale and recommended a physician, his sister asked if he had lost weight. He almost told them but could not bring himself to – he did not trust them to give the right answer or even to understand.

He would have liked to sit at a desk and work the problem out in writing, to make contingencies, lists of advantages (who would live) and disadvantages (who would die). But he did not have the _time _and he did not risk putting anything into writing when someone could find it. Besides, it made his stomach cramp and lurch, to imagine putting into words the cost of his betrayal. Whatever he chose, whatever he did, he would lose someone he loved.

So he sat at his desk and held his head instead of a pen and tried to think. It was impossible to make a right or good decision, he could only choose the most bearable course of action. No matter how long he thought on it, he could only find two answers to his problem. 

The first was to do nothing. The Epiphany Plot would be put into action – it was already unfolding – and Edward would play his part. Henry would be pulled down from Richard’s throne and executed, his sons would follow him to the block, and Richard would be reanointed and recrowned.

And Richard would never forgive them. Hal was a child, his brothers even younger, and Richard loved Hal. Edward wasn’t sure he could forgive himself, either – they were planning to murder _children_. Execute their father and attaint their bloodline, yes, but they should not kill children. And Hal, Hal was dear to him too – the son he would never have, the son in his family he had made with Richard and Isabelle.

But the other answer Edward found with was no better. Edward would turn traitor, betray the plot and save Hal and his brothers. His fellow conspirators would be executed and Edward dared not hope that Henry would spare Richard. He would be quietly killed and each time he thought of it, Edward felt a knife in his body, digging through bone and organs and leaving him alive to endure the agony. He could not fathom it, could not endure it.

He would never forgive himself. Hal would never forgive him.

But Edward would not have to, God willing, face Richard. He would not have to tell Richard that Hal was killed as a traitor. He would not have to see Richard’s face when he learnt his loyal, boon companions had murdered the boy he loved as his own son and Edward had done nothing to stop it.

*

He rode into battle at Henry’s side. Oh God. He rode into battle at Henry’s side. Oh God. He fought through a haze of tears at Henry’s side, his mouth full of bile.

*

News came quickly. The rebellion failed. Every rebel was put to death, sometimes without a trial. Edward knew them all well, considered most his friends, and he knew he could not grieve them openly. He retreated to his room, barred the door, and tried to make sense of it. The Earl of Kent’s death hurt the most. He had only been twenty-seven years old, a year younger than Edward, and he had seen it as his duty to make others – especially Richard – laugh. He had taken it upon himself to tease Hal out of his childish shyness and had seemed as discomfited as much as Edward that he had been involved in something that aimed to bring about Hal’s death. But now Kent was dead himself and his blood was staining Edward’s hands.

Of Richard, there was no news save an account that he claimed all responsibility for the plot in vain effort to save those who risked their lives for him.

*

Later, Edward went over his deliberations and saw the myriad of different paths. He could have found some way to get word to Hal, told him to take his brothers and claim sanctuary at Westminster Abbey. If he could have tried harder to persuade the others that Henry’s sons posed no risk and could play a positive role in Richard’s return, Hal and his brothers could have been kept safe. He could have told Henry and then stolen away to take Richard from Pontefract and keep him safe somewhere. If he had found the right words, the right plan, he could have saved them all.

But, by then, it was too late.

*

There were rumours, whispers, and Edward wished he did not hear of them but it was far worse to try and ignore them. His father looked grim and sad, he would not meet Edward’s eyes, much less tell him what he knew. Edward wondered who else he could ask and approached Hal – he didn’t want to, Hal had been furious since his return to Ireland but there was no one else.

‘Have you heard – is there any truth in it?’ Edward asked.

Hal’s arms were crossed over his chest, his shoulders hunched, and his expression was one of surly bewilderment. ‘Truth in what?’

Edward bit his lip. ‘You haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’

Edward cut himself off. It seemed Hal knew even less than Edward did, that, somehow, he had been insulated from the gossip and did not even know what was being said about Richard.

‘Rutland,’ Hal said. It hurt to know that he was _Rutland _to Hal, no longer _Ned, _no longer a person worth teasing or laughing with. ‘What are you talking about?’

Edward shook his head desperately. He couldn’t tell Hal. Not when it wasn’t certain – he would break the boy’s heart and it might all be for nothing.

‘I shouldn’t be the one to tell you,’ he said and fled before Hal tried to prise it out of him.

*

Edward tried to clear his head by walking in the courtyard. The air was bitterly cold and stung his face and it should have worked but it not. He thought too much. He could confront Henry, he supposed, or else ask his father but there was part of him that did not want confrontation and a larger part that said if he did not know, it was not true. It was not real.

He turned a twisting corner, saw Hal. Hal was sitting on a stone bench, his head bent low, and he was crying, tears running down his face without a sound. Edward’s breath caught. Did he know, now, what had happened? Did he have the confirmation Edward did not: was he grieving or was this just some teenage frustration? If he knew, Edward did not want to ask him. Did not want to hear the words coming from _Hal’s_ mouth. He should not find out like this, not from Hal.

Edward wanted to leave but Hal was crying, his face wet and shoulders shaking. He could not leave Hal like this. He told himself that it was far more likely that Hal had finally heard the rumours – they were growing too many, too loud for Henry to contain.

‘Hal,’ he said.

Hal’s head jerked up and he leapt to his feet, rubbing his face dry angrily. His shoulders shook and Edward found himself hoping that Hal would spit on him or spew insults, or do anything except look at him with eyes full of devastation.

‘Do you know?’ Hal said. ‘Do you know, Rutland, what they are saying?’

Edward nodded. Hal’s lips drew together tight and fresh tears fell. He dashed them away.

‘And is there, Rutland,’ he said, voice breaking, ‘is there any truth in what they are saying?’

Edward opened his mouth, wanting to protest – how would he know? He was not trusted by Henry, not in the least. Even when he betrayed Richard and went to battle at Henry’s side, Henry did not trust him. He knew, too well, that Edward loved Richard and he would never understand why Edward had told him of the plot.

Hal’s chin raised. ‘Then what sort of traitor are you?’

‘Hal,’ Edward said. ‘Please. I didn’t – I couldn’t – everything’s gone wrong.’

_I did it for you, _Edward could not say, _I couldn’t be party to your death. _Hal didn’t deserve to be burdened with Edward’s guilt as well as his own grief._ I didn’t want to, _Edward thought desperately.

Hal did not listen to him, to things Edward said and the things could not say. He turned on his heel and walked away, almost running. The wind blew through the barren branches, made them scratch against each other, and Edward was alone with the thing he had done.

*

One evening, before parliament was meant to resume, Henry called all the peers of the realm together. Edward’s stomach sank and he sat down. Hal was seated at his father’s side, his face a mask and the coronet that marked him as Prince of Wales glinted against his dark hair. His fingers were pressed into his knees. Edward’s stomach churned, a hole opening up in it that went forever down. He did not want to hear, he did not want to be there.

Henry rose a hand and they fell silent. He nodded to Thomas Swynford who stood and began to speak. Sir Richard of Bordeaux, who had once been king, had been overtaken by despair and grief at the failed treason of his friends. Sir Richard of Bordeaux, like a naughty child, had declined to eat. The king, worried as a father would be, had sent Sir Richard companions and friends to plead with him, to ease his melancholy, and Sir Richard had relented and promised to eat. But, alas, it had been so long that Sir Richard’s stomach had closed up and he could not eat, and all the physicians and surgeons and all of Sir Richard’s friends that the good, worried king had sent, could do nothing to save him.

Edward felt his father’s hand clamp down over his, saw the look of warning. His stomach was churning again, this constant roiling and nausea, and he wanted to be sick on his own scorn, the audacity of Henry’s _lie. _His concern and care when he _had done this. _What friends of Richard had Henry sent? Not Edward, certainly – _Arundel, _more likely, to taunt Richard as he lay dying.

_Dying. _Edward leant forward and pressed his face into his hands. Dying, Richard had been dying while Edward had wallowed in his guilt – he could have done something, said something. Perhaps he could have ridden to Richard’s rescue after all, fed him broth and prayed with him until he was strong enough to hold the spoon for himself. Until he could be told what Edward had done and _why _and perhaps even forgiven Edward for his betrayal.

Another man rose and spoke. They would bring Richard to London. Men would be able to view his body. There would be a funeral and then Richard would be laid to rest. Not in Westminster Abbey, not beside his beloved queen, no – he did not die as a king. Edward felt his father’s nails digging deeper into his wrist, wondered if they were drawing blood, and dared to look at Hal, his pale and still face. He had known before, Edward guessed – he would not be so still if this was the first time he had heard.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut. He did not want to listen any further but he had to, to hear what he had wrought. Richard had died, had been killed because of Edward and though he repented of it, Richard would always be dead.

*

The sky was thick and grey when they brought Richard’s body into London. Edward watched the black-draped chariot make its slow path through the city, the banners of St George and Edmund the Confessor held above it along with a golden cross, and it was surrounded by a hundred men bearing torches. There was little was done meagrely but it was not the escort of a man who had been anointed with the balm, who had ruled for twenty-two years. Henry was making a point, Edward supposed, and that point was that Richard was dead and had died as but a man.

The day after, Richard’s body would be displayed in St Paul’s cathedral for anyone to view. It did not escape Edward’s notice that this was the place where Henry’s parents were entombed and he wondered if Henry had done it to make another point.

Edward would not go. He knew Richard was dead and there was no reason for him to go and see the body. He did not want to see what he had done, did not want to try and study Richard’s body in hope that the long, dreadful dead of starvation was another of Henry’s lies, that they had given him a kinder, swifter death.

Edward’s nails dug into his palms. He turned away before he could see anymore of the chariot. He would not go. He would not bear witness.

*

He was disturbed at his prayers by Hal dropped to his knees beside him, crossing himself. Hal looked over his shoulder and gestured impatiently at someone to go. Edward twisted around and saw Hal’s brother Thomas, looking sullen, who turned back and waited at the door to the chapel. Edward swallowed and crossed himself, waiting for whatever was to come. Another blast of Hal’s fury seemed most likely but Hal had sought him out, Hal would speak to him again – all was not lost.

‘I want to go and see,’ Hal said.

‘What?’ But Edward _knew_.

‘Richard,’ Hal said. ‘I need to see him.’

‘Then go,’ Edward said. ‘You scarcely need my permission to—’

‘Father won’t let me,’ Hal said. ‘He said it wouldn’t be right, that it would send the wrong message. And Melbourne won’t disobey him. Hotspur – you know I’m to go into his care soon? – won’t take me either, even though _he’s _going. But I will go.’

Edward closed his eyes tight, feeling horror crack open his heart. Hal’s face was pale and he looked as though he had lost some weight, his cheekbones a little sharper than they should be. Hal would go alone and he would see Richard’s body. Hal would see the man he loved as a father – perhaps more than his father – and Richard would be dead and Hal would be alone.

‘You shouldn’t go alone,’ Edward said, desperate. ‘You shouldn’t.’

‘I probably won’t,’ Hal said. ‘Thomas keeps following me. He thinks he’s a guard dog.’

He smiled a little at that but his eyes were dull and Edward worried even more about him. Thomas might insist on following Hal but he wouldn’t understand. He would never understand – he idolised his father too much (or so Edward had gathered) and he didn’t know how much Hal loved Richard. Besides, if Hal’s stories were anything to go on, he was more likely to call Hal a traitor than comfort him. Edward held his hand out. It trembled a little.

‘I’ll go with you,’ he said. ‘If you want.’

Hal looked him, mouth thin, and whatever he saw in Edward, it was enough. He took Edward’s hand and gripped it tight. It hurt.

*

It was cold in the cathedral, though there were many candles lit and many people there. Some were waiting in a slow-moving line to peer at Richard’s face, the only part of him able to be viewed from the lead coffin that encased his body. Others were on their knees, clutching their beads, and the murmur of their prayers echoed amongst the incense. Edward’s chest felt too tight and he was aware of Hal beside him. He pressed his hand against Hal’s shoulder, felt how tense it was, and wondered if the boy wanted to be comforted.

Hal glanced up at him and his face was young and lost.

‘I want to see,’ he said and moved to join the line.

Edward waited beside him, kept his hand on Hal’s shoulder. He would not look. He could not. If he looked, he would know what he had done all too keenly. If he looked, he feared the memory of Richard alive and beautiful would be replaced by the image of his corpse, stolen of all life. But Hal should not be alone.

The line moved slowly. Someone was weeping. Edward craned his head around to see who it was, thinking it was his sister Constance, but it was a woman he didn’t recognise. He worried that Hal would cry out or sob when he saw the coffin. He felt his own breath shudder and his fingers bit down too hard into Hal’s shoulder. The boy did not shrug him off, instead his body listed to one side as if he wanted to lean into Edward’s warmth but could not bring himself to.

They were by the feet of the coffin. Edward dragged his eyes away, felt sick. Hal’s hands were clenched, the knuckles white, and he was murmuring an Ave under his breath. _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. _Edward’s hands clenched themselves into fists. They moved forward. Edward could not look at the coffin, wanted to flee but he needed to stay with Hal as long as he could. Hal had murmured two Aves, he was on his third and they were stepping now to the head of the coffin. _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death—_

‘Mary help,’ Hal said.

Edward walked around the coffin, knew he should have stayed and kept his hand on Hal’s shoulder but he couldn’t. Hal stared into the coffin, his face going bone white. His hand rose to his mouth and he buried his teeth in it.

*

Edward took Hal to a tavern, the first he saw, and bought him strong wine that tasted of vinegar. Hal was pale and shaking but he had not cried and his eyes were dry. Edward did not fool himself into thinking Hal was alright – there were deep indentations in his hands where he had bitten it. Hal wrapped his hands around the cup of wine and brought it to his mouth and the taste must have been enough to pull him back into himself.

‘This is foul,’ he said. ‘God.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Hal shook his head. ‘I’m sorry too.’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘I’ve been so angry,’ Hal said. 

‘I know.’

Hal gave a small smile. ‘You would, Ned.’

It wasn’t forgiveness. Hal would never forgive him and Edward did not want him to. Forgiveness would be too much like comfort for a man who should be made to live with the thing he had done.

Hal stared at the wood of the table with such intensity that Edward wondered what he was seeing instead. Was it Richard’s face, still and bloodless in death? Was he as beautiful in death as he had been in life, or would his death have disgraced him, made him ugly some way? No, Edward thought, it could not. 

Hal drained the rest of his cup, coughing and spluttering, and Edward remembered the boy was only thirteen. A little over a year ago, they had been with Richard and Hal had complained he was drunk after drinking watered wine. Richard had teased him for it. Now Richard was dead and Hal was drinking horrible wine.

‘Come on, Ned,’ Hal said. ‘We should go back.’

Hal stretched out a hand to him. Edward did not know if he should take it.

**Author's Note:**

> **Historical Notes**  
The Epiphany Rising occurred over the Christmas and New Year celebrations of 1399/1400 with the aim of restoring Richard II to the throne. The chief protagonists in the plot included John Holland, Earl of Huntington (Richard’s half-brother), Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent (Richard’s nephew), John Montagu, Earl of Salisbury, and Thomas le Despenser. Edward of York, then Earl of Rutland and formerly Duke of Aumerle, is often said to have been involved (though some historians, e.g. James Tait, doubt his involvement) and the chief suspect for betraying the plot to Henry IV, sometimes willingly or unwillingly (though there are other suspects, such as Elizabeth of Lancaster, who was the wife of John Holland but sister of Henry IV, or even a prostitute one of the rebels confided in). 
> 
> One account claims it was intended that Henry’s four sons would be killed alongside their father. The eldest, Hal (the future Henry V), was only thirteen and the youngest, Humphrey, was nine. I figured that _if_ this account is true (and I don’t necessarily believe it is – it might have been made up to make the rebels look worse than they were), the deaths of four children might be reason for the betrayal of the plot, especially if Edward was already fond of Hal (historians such as Michael Jones, Juliet Barker and Ian Mortimer have characterised Edward as one of Hal’s inner circle of friends and it’s possible this relationship began while Hal was in Richard’s household). 
> 
> Hal’s attitude towards Richard’s deposition and death is basically unrecorded, though there are accounts of him being distressed by the news of his father’s return, including one that says he refused to leave Richard’s side and return to his father until Richard himself convinced him to (this probably isn't true; Hal had been left in Ireland when Richard returned to face Henry). During the Rising, he and his brothers were lodged in the Tower of London while Henry rode to quash the rebellion. 
> 
> It is more likely that Richard was slowly starved to death as opposed to be murdered in an attack - an examination of his bones in the 1800s showed no signs of violence. The depiction and attitudes of Richard II’s death, how the news was disseminated, and his funerary escort into London, I used Nigel Saul’s _Richard II_, Paul Strohm’s _England’s Empty Throne_, Kathryn Warner’s _Richard II: A True King’s Fall_, and Anna M Duch’s paper, “Starving Prisoner, Starving Guests: The Death of Richard II and His Missing Funerary Meal” which can be viewed on Academia.edu [here](https://www.academia.edu/28030549/Starving_Prisoner_Starving_Guests_The_Death_of_Richard_II_and_His_Missing_Funerary_Meal). Duch’s paper was where I got the construction of Richard as a “naughty child” refusing to eat while his “worried father” Henry sent help and obviously, I meant this to be how Henry is constructing Richard's death rather than how Edward saw it or how it really went down. 
> 
> A requiem mass was held for Richard in London which Henry IV attended and it’s possible that Edward and Hal also attended, though as far as I found with my limited resources, there is no reference to them being in attendance. Richard was buried in King’s Langley and his body remained there until 1413. One of Henry V’s first acts as king was to have Richard reinterred in Westminster Abbey in the tomb Richard had intended for himself, beside his beloved queen, Anne of Bohemia.


End file.
